


A Lady's Guide

by yeahitshowed



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahitshowed/pseuds/yeahitshowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Phoebe Navarro, her childhood friend, Sibella, and the dashing Montague D'Ysquith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lady's Guide

Phoebe didn’t believe a word of it, of course. Miss Shingle seemed like a sweet woman, but this fantasy--it was pure lunacy. 

“A D’Ysquith, did you say?” Phoebe asked politely. 

“Oh, yes, my dear.” Miss Shingle’s grin was the first ray of sunlight to hit the Navarro household since mother’s passing. “My, you’re taking this quite well! But you don’t believe me, do you?”

“I don’t see how mother could have been a D’Ysquith all this time without my knowing,” Phoebe admitted, flipping through the letters backing up Miss Shingle’s claim. “We were very close.” 

“I know you were, sweet thing,” Miss Shingle said, patting Phoebe’s arm. Phoebe balked at the touch; it must have been the millionth pat she’d received in a week. The funeral had been nothing but gentle pats, Sibella’s the gentlest of all. “This was one secret she didn’t dare tell even you.”

“She didn’t dare!” Phoebe repeated. “Why hide such a wonderful thing?” 

Miss Shingle smoothed her bonnet in her lap. “The shame of it all. Disinherited entirely, left with nothing but memories. She lived like a princess, she did, until your father came along. The family couldn’t understand why she’d want to marry for love with so many better options available. Their little girl married to a Castilian--and worse, a musician!” 

“My poor mother,” Phoebe murmured. Glancing at her mother’s portrait, she imagined a tiara painted on her dark hair, streams of jewels added to her fading dress. “They turned her out just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“How dreadful.” Phoebe examined the letters in her lap, indisputably in her mother’s hand. They all followed the same painful pattern: kind introduction, plaintive inquiry after why the cousin in question hadn’t responded, humble close. Not one of those rotten D’Ysquiths had deigned to write back. “Miss Shingle, if what you say is true, do you think the D’Ysquiths know about me?”

“Hard to say,” Miss Shingle said with a frown. “If any of them do, they haven’t done much about it, have they?”

“It’s only that funds have been quite low since mother’s death,” Phoebe said. “The two of us always scraped along with our sewing, but now...The D’Ysquiths are terribly rich, aren’t they?”

“I believe they intend to stay that way. Giving handouts to long-lost cousins isn’t quite in their nature.” Miss Shingle tutted at Phoebe’s crestfallen face. “Don’t look so low, love! Why, someday, all those riches could be yours.”

She went on to tell Phoebe how the D’Ysquith succession was laid out: Phoebe was the child of the daughter of the grandson of the something else, on and on for a dishearteningly long list of names. Eight people in front of her--eight D’Ysquiths who would have to go to God before Phoebe could follow her mother’s footsteps at Highhurst. Not the best of odds, but Phoebe was never one to abandon hope. 

Once Miss Shingle had left, Phoebe fetched a pen and paper, and began to craft a letter. 

***********************************************************

“Phoebe?”

“Sibella!” The moment Sibella’s rose-soaked perfume hit Phoebe’s nose, her giddiness tripled. “I have the most wonderful news; you’re not going to believe it!” 

There she was, lounging on her sofa, looking far too fancy for lounging. Phoebe’s outfit paled in comparison--though she was wearing her favorite dress, dark blue and fitted, her hand-me-downs had always quailed next to Sibella’s clothes. Today, Sibella sported a dazzling pink dress that Phoebe had helped her choose a month before; she could still see Sibella twirling in front of the store’s mirrors, asking, _what do you think, Phoebe? A bit much for Clapham, I know, but nevertheless..._

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Sibella bubbled, rising to clasp Phoebe’s hands. “With all the servants in this place, not one of them can do up this dress like you can. Would you, please?”

“Yes, of course.” Phoebe started on the dress, delicately brushing Sibella’s hair to the side. “About that news--”

“I absolutely detest my hair like this,” Sibella sighed. “So plain. Maybe a flower--?”

“It looks beautiful,” Phoebe assured her, finishing the laces with a flourish. Sibella spun around, beaming. 

“Chocolates!” she exclaimed, noticing the box Phoebe had put on the makeup table. “Why, Phoebe, you’re worse than that Picton boy. What was his name?”

“Jasper, I believe.”

“Yes! Jasper Picton. What a lamb. Always giving me little trinkets when the teachers weren’t looking.” Sibella laughed, powdering her nose. 

“Sibella--”

“He wasn’t half as dear as you are, I’m afraid,” Sibella said. She held up an earring to the mirror, testing it against her coloring. “None of them ever are. Men can be so dull, don’t you think?” She glanced down, extending a foot. “Oh--my shoe’s come undone again.”

Phoebe hardly noticed herself bending to the floor to re-tie the pretty pink slipper. Sibella prattled on, sneaking one of the chocolates when she thought Phoebe wasn’t looking. (Phoebe was always looking.) 

“--and he’ll be here in a few minutes. Not a second late, I’d wager,” Sibella sighed. 

“Who will be here?” Phoebe asked, standing.

Sibella ceased her search for earrings, crossing her arms. “Weren’t you listening to a thing I said?” 

“Yes. Just not _every_ thing.” Delight bloomed in the pit of her stomach when Sibella grudgingly smiled. 

“Lionel Holland, that’s who.”

“A friend of yours?”

Sibella turned back to the mirror, finally settled on a set of purple earrings Phoebe had given her for her birthday. “Hopefully more than a friend. He has a motorcar--can you believe that? I’ve never been out with a man in a motorcar.”

Phoebe bit back a comment she knew she’d regret. Disparaging Sibella’s callers never did her any good. “I hope you have a lovely time. The weather couldn’t be better for a drive.”

“Perhaps today he’ll give me some indication of a personality,” Sibella said. Her lips quirking, she added, “That was rather cruel, wasn’t it?”

“I won’t tell Mr. Holland, should we ever meet,” Phoebe promised. There was that glitter in Sibella’s eyes; Phoebe had never witnessed its likeness in the presence of Sibella’s boyfriends, a fact she clung to. 

“You really are a dove,” Sibella purred. “I can’t tell you how awfully my heart will break when some fine young man snatches you away from me. What would I do without my best friend here to keep me sane?” She was close enough for Phoebe to see the freckles Sibella obsessively covered with concealer. “Now, what’s this life-changing news you barged in here yelling about?”

“Oh! I had almost forgotten--have you heard of the D’Ysquith family?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, you know that my mother never liked to talk about her life before her marriage,” Phoebe said in a rush. “And she always insisted that ‘Navarro’ was the only name that should matter to us; I never knew her maiden name.”

“Yes?” Sibella twirled a lock of her hair, her gaze half on her mirror. 

“I know her maiden name now.” Phoebe was nearly bursting. “It seems that mother was a D’Ysquith, which means I’m a D’Ysquith, too.”

“Oh, Phoebe.” Sibella’s smile was not quite as enchanting anymore. “I know you’re in pain, but making up stories can’t help.”

“It’s not a story! I’ll show you the papers, if you like.” She reached for her purse, pulling out the proof. Sibella took it with an unbearably sympathetic expression. “I didn’t believe it at first, either, but I swear it’s true. I could be countess, someday!”

Sibella’s expression tightened as her eyes traced the letters; it was the same look she had sported the time she and a classmate wore the same dress to their school’s spring cotillion. “You, a D’Ysquith,” she murmured, more to herself than to Phoebe. 

“Just eight people are before me in the line of succession,” Phoebe said excitedly. “It’s possible I could be as rich as any Lionel Holland.” 

Sibella looked up sharply at her caller’s name. “Yes, I suppose,” she said slowly. “But only if eight people were to die.”

“Well, yes, but--I have a chance at wealth and position. That’s more than I’ve ever had.” Phoebe took Sibella’s hand. “Can’t you be happy for me, as ludicrous as it sounds?”

It would not be unlike Sibella to turn Phoebe out on a whim. Her moods were like the wind in their changeability, and, try as she might to anchor herself, Phoebe was constantly blown away. To Phoebe’s relief, Sibella gave a small sigh, smiled warmly, and pronounced, “Of course I can, darling. And just when you needed a stroke of good fortune!” Sibella pulled Phoebe to the couch, intertwining their fingers. “If anyone deserves to be a D’Ysquith, it’s you,” she said, squeezing Phoebe’s hand. “ _Your ladyship._ ”

Phoebe let out quite the unladylike giggle. “I could get used to that.”

“Imagine you, a countess!” Sibella said. “How proud your mother would be.” Off Phoebe’s faltering smile, she rushed, “Forgive me; I shouldn’t have brought her up.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“How have you been feeling lately?” she asked, her gaze solely on Phoebe. For once, the mirror lay forgotten. “We barely spoke at the funeral.”

“You had your reasons,” Phoebe said tightly. Try as she might to forget, the memory of Sibella impersonal and aloof when Phoebe so needed warmth stayed prominent in her mind. 

“My poor Phoebe.” Sibella wrapped her in a hug, burying her head in Phoebe’s shoulder. “You’ve been through so much.”

Maybe it was the sudden tenderness, or the rose perfume, or the gentleman due to arrive soon to steal Sibella away by motorcar--whatever it was, Phoebe found herself kissing Sibella until light pink spots burst behind her eyes, and Sibella was kissing her back. They were fourteen again, kissing in Sibella’s room, “practicing” for when they were alone with boys. Phoebe saw in her mind’s eye, like she had seen at fourteen, like she had seen all her life, the two of them wearing matching rings in a little cottage.

Phoebe pulled back, her trembling hands resting on Sibella’s shoulders. “Sibella, I think it’s time you took me seriously.”

Sibella’s laugh was cruelly light. “Phoebe,” she said, rising to rush to the mirror, “we’ve discussed this. Two women--it can’t be done.”

“It _is_ done,” Phoebe said desperately. “In secret, it happens all the time; no one has to know but us. We could get a house somewhere--”

“And what would we live off of? What would the neighbors think?” Sibella refused to look away from her reflection, reapplying her lipstick.

“What does it matter?” Phoebe scrambled to her side, grabbing and pressing her lips to Sibella’s hand. “If I could spend my life with you, I shouldn’t want for anything else.”

Sibella pulled free. “That’s a foolish thing to say, and you know it.” 

As Phoebe’s retort formed on her tongue, a servant announced the arrival of Mr. Lionel Holland. 

“Right on time!” Sibella said. “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.” After the servant was safely gone, she whispered, “If only he weren’t so predictable. I’ll tell you all the details when I get back!”

And she was gone, leaving Phoebe and the rest of her discarded playthings in a room that smelled like her. 

***********************************************************

The letter from Mr. Asquith D’Ysquith Jr. had hardly dented Phoebe’s hopes; the disappointing tour of Highhurst, even less so. After turning mother out so heartlessly, the D’Ysquiths did not give off a welcoming air. Still, Phoebe thought she may as well meet with the one good Christian member of the family. He, if anyone, should have been well-versed in forgiveness. 

“Yes, of course I remember Isobel!” Lord Ezekial huffed, leading Phoebe through the D’Ysquith family church. “She looked just like you. Except for the clothes. Much better clothes.”

“You remember her fondly, my lord?” Phoebe asked. 

“Oh, she was a delightful girl. Broke her father’s heart, of course, marrying that good-for-nothing Castilian--I beg your pardon, miss! I shouldn’t use such language in the presence of a lady.”

“‘Castilian’ isn’t a dirty word, sir.” 

“Come, come, I must show you the tower!” Lord Ezekial squeaked. Phoebe followed dutifully up the curling stairs. 

“Do you think you might be able to put in a good word for me with the family?” Phoebe panted. “For the sake of my charming mother, your cousin? I would so appreciate it.”

“No, that wouldn’t do. Best to stay out of family intrigue, I say; better for everyone involved,” Lord Ezekial said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Besides, a father’s decisions should be respected. Head of the family, and all that.”

Phoebe tripped on the hem of her dress trying to keep up. “I beseech you to look to your Christian charity, your lordship. You won’t make an exception, just this once?”

“Here we are,” Lord Ezekial said in triumph, ignoring Phoebe entirely. “Splendid view, isn’t it? The flying buttresses were constructed in...”

Phoebe listened gloomily, staring out at a landscape she’d never own. The reverend insisted they bend over the side of the tower to get the full effect; he nearly flung himself off the edge while Phoebe craned her neck, holding down her skirt against the wind. When he requested help regaining his balance, Phoebe’s hand shot out automatically, coming within an inch of grabbing him.

She never made it the rest of the way.

***********************************************************

Asquith D’Ysquith Jr. was next. Learning from the windy day atop the D’Ysquith family church, Phoebe opted for pants in lieu of a dress. To avoid any murmurings about a woman in masculine attire--and to disguise herself--she wore one of her father’s shirts that her mother had lovingly kept pristine all these years, tucking her hair into a cap she bought in town. While her poison went unused, she had to admit that staging the death as a skating accident was far cleaner, anyway. 

Coping with the guilt was a feat as difficult as carrying out the murders. Phoebe often poured over her mother’s letters to ease her stricken heart, paying particular attention to the responses from Asquith D’Ysquith Sr. It came as something of a shock when a fresh letter from that old correspondent arrived at her door, apologizing for his son’s earlier brusque dismissal. He invited her to meet with him the following day.

“Do come in, Miss Navarro,” he greeted her, beckoning her toward his desk. Tense with nerves, she gave an awkward curtsey before walking forward. “My. I have not often seen photographs of your mother, but you seem to be her spitting image.”

“Thank you, sir,” Phoebe said demurely. “That’s quite a compliment.”

“I gather you’re wondering why I should suddenly choose to write to you.”

“Yes, frankly, I am.”

“My firm has an opening for a secretarial position; if you would like the job, it’s yours,” Lord Asquith said, adjusting his spectacles. “One of our established secretaries could begin your training tomorrow morning.”

Phoebe blinked, his kindness foreign to her ears. “That is...most generous, my lord, but I should warn you: the only work I’ve held is as a seamstress.” 

“Which is why you would be trained.” Lord Asquith removed a checkbook from his jacket pocket. “Shall I assume you’ll take me up on my offer?”

“Yes, of course--I hardly know what to say!”

“Here is a check for twenty pounds; use it to enhance your wardrobe, won’t you?” Lord Asquith said. Phoebe nodded, self-consciously touching the patched sections of her dress. “I expect you at the office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. My assistant should have some recommendations for dress shops in the area.”

“Tomorrow at nine,” Phoebe repeated. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

She grasped Lord Asquith’s hand, beaming at him. It took a moment before he squeezed her hand in return. As Phoebe started to leave, she made the mistake of fixating on a newspaper lying crumpled and dog-eared on the desk; the headline proclaimed Lord Asquith D’Ysquith Jr. dead, drowned in a freak skating accident. 

“Had you heard of my son’s passing?” Lord Asquith asked, following her stare to the paper. Phoebe shook her head, her throat dry. “Ice-skating accident. He always was an reckless one. Boys are like that, you know. I had wanted a girl, myself, but my wife prayed for a boy.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Phoebe said.

Lord Asquith sighed, touching the newspaper gently. “Well, what’s done is done. Until tomorrow morning, Miss Navarro.”

“Nine o’clock, sharp,” Phoebe reminded herself, giving another odd curtsey as she left. When trying on dresses in a boutique Lord Asquith’s assistant had suggested, Phoebe determined that Asquith D’Ysquith Sr. was a diamond in the D’Ysquith rough. 

***********************************************************

Phoebe wore her new dress out of the store. The salesgirl had called it royal blue; how very fitting. 

She dashed off to Sibella’s immediately, gleeful at the prospect of miss this-season’s-gowns-are-so-last-season seeing her fresh look. Thanking the servant who answered the door, Phoebe strutted into the parlor, finding Sibella wearing a pale pink gown and an extraordinarily wide smile. 

“Sibella?” Phoebe said, knocking at the door frame.

“Oh, Phoebe! I have wonderful news!” Sibella bounced up, extending her arm. A ring glittered triumphantly on her finger. “Lionel proposed--we’re to be married in May!”

The ludicrously expensive dress was all of a sudden like lead on Phoebe’s body. She took Sibella’s hand, examining the brilliant diamond. Such a cold, hard thing didn’t seem like much of a declaration of love. “I should not be surprised,” Phoebe said in an oddly high voice. “His intentions were clear from the start. My best wishes to you both, naturally.”

“You’ll be a bridesmaid, of course,” Sibella said cheerily. “How do you feel about lilac for the gowns? It would look simply awful with my sister’s hair.” She laughed, fluttering to the dresser to check her makeup. 

Phoebe brushed a speck of dust off her dress. “I’ll have to see if I’m available. Lord Asquith D’Ysquith has asked me to become a secretary at the family business, and I imagine my hours shall not be short.” 

“Is that so?” Sibella inquired, masking her surprise with another layer of blush. “You really are a D’Ysquith, then.”

“You shouldn’t have doubted it.” 

“No, I guess I shouldn’t have.”

Glancing away from the mirror, Sibella’s eyes traversed Phoebe’s dress; as she opened her mouth to comment, Phoebe said, “I’ll leave you to your planning. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Oh, don’t go yet!” Sibella said anxiously. “Not when you look so blue. You mustn’t be upset with me.”

“Why would I be upset with you?”

“You know why.” The fingers on Sibella’s right hand played over her ring. “Promise me you’ll be a bridesmaid, alright? Just like we used to play.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said softly. “Just like we used to play. Me as a bridesmaid while you married a stuffed bear.”

“This time, I won’t have to make a veil out of a handkerchief.” As Sibella started staring at Phoebe’s dress again, Phoebe desired nothing more than one of her comfortable old frocks. “Wherever did you get that outfit?”

“Lord Asquith advanced me enough to improve my clothing,” Phoebe explained stiffly. “He’s taken quite a liking to me.”

Sibella tested the dress’s fabric between her fingers. “That’s not unexpected, what with your charm. You’ve grown older, Phoebe. Not in looks--you’re as fresh-faced as ever. But you seem now like a woman of the world.” 

“Then I should begin my search for a suitable husband, shouldn’t I?” Phoebe said. Sibella’s grip on her dress strengthened.

“Start the search tomorrow,” she suggested. “We have too much to celebrate today.” Sibella leaned in; despite the choir of endorphins urging her forward, Phoebe dodged the embrace, turning aside. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” Sibella asked, her hands on her hips.

“What about Lionel?”

“What about him?”

Usually, when Sibella kissed her, Phoebe’s thoughts dissolved in a pleasant pink haze; her world narrowed to the vain, selfish, perfect woman leaving lipstick stains on her mouth. This time, one thought endured. That damn name, Lionel, Lionel, Lionel, buzzed in Phoebe’s ears like a mosquito. 

“Sibella,” she said urgently, pulling back, “I cannot pretend as if seeing you marry will not shatter my heart beyond repair.” 

“Phoebe, don’t,” Sibella warned. She attempted to cross the room, held back by Phoebe’s grip on her hand.

“I have not given you up!” Phoebe assured her heatedly. “Come away with me--right now!”

Sibella escaped Phoebe’s grasp, wiping at her eyes. “Don’t torture me, Phoebe. Please.”

“Sibella, no--please--!” 

Phoebe watched, paralyzed, as Sibella disappeared down the hallway. After an eternity of standing frozen in place, a maid appeared to tell her that Miss Hallward wished her to leave. 

***********************************************************

Phoebe adjusted her cap. Her most recent paycheck had furnished a dashing update to her masculine disguise (tailored pants, an indigo jacket, and some creative padding in the shoulders and stomach to obscure her figure), but she was still on the lookout for a hat that would comfortably hide her hair. Tucked in a corner of a bar that Henry D’Ysquith apparently frequented, she doubted many would even notice she was there, much less scrutinize her headwear. 

Nursing a beer, Phoebe only had to wait an hour or two before a chap with that familiar D’Ysquith face came bounding through the door. The barmaid addressed him by name, flashing  a sycophantic smile; off Henry’s request, she whipped up a vibrantly pink cocktail, complete with a slice of lime. 

“Oi, D’Ysquith!”

Three men rose from a nearby table, surrounding the squire at the bar. Phoebe caught a word here and there--something about a land dispute. Each time the D’Ysquith lad spoke, the men’s voices rose. Sneaking glances at the argument, Phoebe touched the poison lying patiently in her pocket. With any luck, those men would finish the job for her. 

“Just because you and your brother own half the county doesn’t give you the right--”

A squeal carried over the angry shouting; one of the men had grabbed Henry by the collar. Phoebe stared fixedly at her mug. The ensuing scuffle was too reminiscent of the rich boys who had used Phoebe’s poverty and diminutive size as bully fodder in her youth. Led by her blasted kind instincts, instilled in her by her ladylike mother, Phoebe rushed to the counter. 

“Unhand this man at once,” Phoebe ordered in the lowest voice she could muster. The trio’s leader turned to her, fist raised. “Do you really think it wise to rough up a gentleman with the power to purchase the clothes off your back?”

Despite the shaking in her knees, Phoebe’s voice did not betray the slightest tremor. With merely a shove to Phoebe’s shoulder, the men slunk from the bar, scowling back at them. “I’m not through with you, D’Ysquith,” the leader snarled as shoved the door open. “I’ll see you come a cropper, I will.”

After they were safely out of sight, Henry called, “Threats will get you nowhere, my friend! I’ll foreclose the whole county, if it suits me.”

Phoebe stomach twinged in disgust. Brushing the shoulder of her jacket, she once again patted the pocket holding her poison; D’Ysquith’s drink was wonderfully unattended. The trick was to move swiftly enough while the bartender was busy.

“I say, it was awfully good of you to step in like that,” Henry said, plucking up his glass. “Are you quite alright, sir?”

Sir! “Are you?” she countered. “They barely touched me.”

“Yes, yes, perfectly fine. I don’t mind a bit of manhandling.” Coughing on a sip, he amended, “Because of all the roughhousing I get myself into! Nary a day goes by when I don’t pick myself a fight.”

“You’re braver than I, then,” Phoebe said, her voice climbing back into the atmosphere of its own accord. Beads of sweat broke out underneath the loosely-secured hat. 

Henry stepped closer, brushing at the spot on Phoebe’s jacket where the townsman had pushed her. “I wouldn’t say that. It takes a special fellow to stand up to the riled peasantry.” He must be on to her secret--why else would his hand linger so long over her sleeve? “What say we have us some rum, shall we? It’s the least I can offer in return for your gallantry.”

“Any man would have done the same,” Phoebe said humbly. 

“The name’s D’Ysquith, by the way,” he said, extending a hand. “Henry D’Ysquith.”

Phoebe made sure to shake firmly. “Mine’s Navarro.” Off Henry’s expectant smile, she improvised, “Ah--Sebastian. Sebastian Navarro. Pleased to know you, Henry.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Henry assured her. 

  “Why, I believe we may be cousins, if you’re of any relation to Danforth D’Ysquith.”

“He was a relative of yours?” 

“A distant one, yes.” 

“Then how fortunate we should meet!” Henry said, beaming. “And at just the right moment, too. I find nothing more comforting in a time of need than a man such as yourself.”

“Absolutely,” Phoebe agreed. She found the D’Ysquiths liked people agreeing with them.

“You share the sentiment, Navarro?”

“Indeed I do. Why, I hate to think what those men would have done if I hadn’t intervened. Probably dragged you into the washroom for some rough-and-tumble.”

Judging by Henry’s full-body shudder, the thought scared him as much as it did Phoebe. “How nice it is to find a kindred spirit,” he exclaimed. “You’re not a country man, are you?”

“No, I’ve come from town for a short vacation.”

“Your wife, too?” 

“I’ve no wife to speak of,” Phoebe said. 

“Ah, the bachelor’s life. I envy you, my friend.” Henry waited until the bartender busied herself wiping down tables before adding, “My lovely wife rarely comes to the country. Makes for an empty house, you know.”

“You live alone?” Phoebe spoke too loudly, too forcefully--her eagerness at the morbidly marvelous opportunity spilled out in droves. Henry did not seem put off by her enthusiasm; quite the opposite, in fact. 

“No,” he said wistfully. “My brother helps me keep the country estate. You must visit us!”

“Yes, I must,” Phoebe concurred. “That is, if your brother will have me for company.”

“Oh, he’ll be civil!” 

Phoebe couldn’t help returning his smile; the man radiated excitement. “Your hospitality is most refreshing.” 

Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Phoebe turned, finding an annoyed barmaid staring at her head. “Must ya wear those bloody things indoors?” the barmaid sighed. “You’ll take off your cap for a restaurant, but day in and day out, men prance around my establishment like they’re out in the fields. I have a reputation to uphold, y’know.”

“That’s my fault, madam,” Henry cut in. “Setting a bad example.” He whipped off his cap with a flourish. The barmaid gave Phoebe a pointed look before returning to a newspaper.

Phoebe rose, starting toward the door. “We’ll have to see about that visit,” she called back at Henry.

“Where are you going?” Henry followed her out the door. “You barely touched your drink.”

“I’d just--rather keep my cap on, is all,” Phoebe said. 

Henry’s hands flew to his hips. “Well, that isn’t very good manners. All you had to do was--”

He reached for Phoebe’s head; she ducked him twice before he caught an edge of her cap, yanking it off. Her hair tumbled down like the curtain falling on a play. 

“I can explain,” she said, her voice once again high and feminine.

Phoebe had anticipated confusion from the young squire--shock, even. He gave no evidence of either. After a moment’s silent blinking, Henry gave her a sad smile, patting her arm. “We all have our secrets,” he whispered. “Is Sebastian your real name?”

“I--Phoebe.”

“How does tomorrow afternoon sound to you, Phoebe?” 

“To visit? You mean you still--?” she stammered. “It sounds fine. Wonderful.”

Leaving her with the address and another reassuring pat, Henry mounted a scooter and rode off.

***********************************************************

Phoebe opted for a dress this time. Henry greeted her enthusiastically; as they strolled across the premises, he complimented her clothes between long-winded stories about his life as a squire. Tuning out most of the drivel, Phoebe only paid real attention to the tales of Henry’s beekeeping. Earlier that day, a talkative salesman had passed along much of the same information: Henry’s love for his drones, his lifelong devotion to the hobby, and, most importantly, the extraordinary attraction of English lavender to the average honeybee. She had purchased a vial of the stuff at once.

After sharing his afternoon tea with Phoebe, Henry excused himself, insisting the honey wasn’t going to harvest itself. He welcomed Phoebe to explore his brother’s garden while she waited; she took him up on the offer. When he was safely out of sight fetching his gloves, Phoebe doused his beekeeping hat in the English lavender extract. 

The garden really was lovely. Flowers of every variety stretched up toward the sun, bursting from the ground and twining over the walls. Even the faded swing sitting between two rose patches had snakes of shrubbery slithering up its sides. 

Taken with the mini-Eden, Phoebe did not immediately notice the man walking up the garden’s path, his nose buried in a book. Her attention shifted when she heard a startled “Oh!” from behind. There stood the youngest D’Ysquith Phoebe had encountered yet--a man looking about her own age. 

“Pardon me,” Phoebe said, bending into a curtsey. “Mr. D’Ysquith, I presume?”

“You are?” His voice was delightfully gentle.

“Miss Navarro. But please, call me Phoebe.” She held out a hand still smelling of lavender; Henry’s brother kissed it, sending a tingle up her arm. 

“Then you must call me Monty,” the D’Ysquith boy said, his smile as electrically happy as Henry’s. “Montague, rather. Henry often tells me that nicknames are an insult to our given Christian names.” 

“I prefer Monty,” Phoebe offered. 

The look Monty gave her must have been the reason the flowers bloomed so fully. “Henry tells me you are a cousin?” 

“Yes; my mother was Isobel D’Ysquith.” She could see Monty searching in his mental D’Ysquith directory. Before he could come up short, she continued, “You have most likely never heard her name mentioned among the family--she was disowned for marrying a man below her station.” 

“How horrid!” Monty clutched at his heart. “They cut her off?”

“Without a shilling.”

“Why, Miss Navarro--”

“I warned your brother, you might not care to receive me,” Phoebe said ashamedly, bracing herself for Monty’s polite dismissal. 

“On the contrary!” Monty exclaimed. “I’m most intrigued. How brave your mother was to follow her heart at the cost of everything she’d known. That she dared to marry for love...” He sighed, absentmindedly touching a nearby lily. “Does that mean you grew up quite poor?”

“Very much so,” Phoebe admitted. “My mother and I always made ends meet, somehow.”

“That must have inspired an awful resentment of the upper classes.” Noticing Phoebe’s shuffling feet, he said, distressed, “You must forgive me, going and making assumptions about you!”

“I don’t mind,” she assured him, taken aback by the intensity of his concern.

“No, I should know better, considering there’s nothing I despite more than people making assumptions about me. I know they talk about me in the village--they see a man who’s rich, and from an important family, and they assume...” 

During her brief visit throughout the countryside, Phoebe had heard the rumors. On the streets, in the shops, even in the lady’s washrooms, angry people with ruddy faces had slung names at the D’Ysquith boys: fop, miser, tyrant. Watching Monty delicately adjust his tie, Phoebe hoped the worst of the insults never reached his ears. 

“They haven’t the right,” Phoebe said, clucking her tongue. “Never having met you. One moment in your company would dispel any nasty gossip, I’m sure.”

Monty’s flattered expression was a thing of beauty. “I don’t really mind what they say about me; it’s Henry I worry about. He’s a gentle soul.” 

They began slowly strolling along the garden’s path, Monty surveying his flowers like a king overlooking his kingdom. He offered Phoebe his arm; after wiping her suddenly-sweaty hands on her dress, she took it. In between concerns about his brother, Monty enlightened Phoebe on the names and peculiarities of passing flowers. 

“I must show you the belladonnas,” Monty said, leading Phoebe off the path. He gestured to a patch of purple blooms. “Aren’t they spectacular?”

“Lovely,” Phoebe agreed.

“They’ve always been my favorites.” Monty plucked one, presenting it to Phoebe with a proud smile. “Beautiful to the eye, but deadly to ingest. It’s poetry.”

Phoebe slipped the flower into her purse. Before she could reassume her grip on Monty’s arm, the young D’Ysquith let out a shriek; as they had turned back to the path, Monty had caught sight of his brother in the distance, motionless on the ground and surrounded by bees. It was all Phoebe could do to hold Monty upright as his legs gave out. 

***********************************************************

The newspapers were having a field day with the whole thing. Every day, a new headline squawked the latest news: _Lady Hyacinth Presumed Dead Overseas, Lord Bartholomew Crushed by Weights, Lady Salome’s Last Curtain Call._ Phoebe should have gotten a cut of the profits, the way the stories were selling.

Lord Asquith often asked her to pick up a paper on her way to work. They discussed the tragedies over tea, her employer shaking his head at the losses while fixing her cup. Two sugars and a drop of honey--he always remembered how she liked it. 

Some days, after bidding Lord Asquith goodbye, Phoebe would trek out to the country to visit a grieving Monty. She was turned away, the first time; a servant informed her that Mr. D’Ysquith was indisposed, and would rather she came back later. After standing by the gate for the better part of an hour, Phoebe watched the door crack open a sliver. Monty appeared, puffy-eyed and clad in black. 

Phoebe presented him with a a bouquet and her sincerest apologies. While she prattled on about Henry’s virtues, Monty stayed silent, a few tears sliding down his cheek. He picked at the flowers, sniffling whenever Phoebe mentioned Henry by name. Just as Phoebe made to leave, unsure whether her presence was even wanted, Monty pulled her into a crushing hug. Thereafter, her visits became a regularity. 

On the evenings not spent comforting Monty, Phoebe called on the newly-christened Mrs. Holland. The wedding had apparently been a spectacle, with white lace doilies on the tables and important people in the pews. Phoebe had, unfortunately, been unable to attend, but she experienced the day vicariously through Sibella’s repeated tellings. Sibella bragged about the house, the lunches, the Italian honeymoon, yet she never seemed to mention--

“And Lionel?” Phoebe asked one hot summer day, sitting on a sofa imported from somewhere far away. “How is the lucky groom?”

“The same,” Sibella said dismissively, fingering the pearl necklace strung around her throat. “Work and sleep, that’s all he likes. Sometimes I wonder if he’s human at all.”

“A money machine,” Phoebe mused. “It’s your dream come true, isn’t it?”

“Oh, aren’t you clever.” Glancing at the hall, Sibella sighed, “He’s away almost all of the time on business, you know. I think I prefer it that way.” 

“Just you and this big, handsome house.” 

“And what of your house?” Sibella grabbed Phoebe’s hands, bouncing. “I had to hear through the papers that you’ve purchased a place of your own.”

“It’s certainly a step up from that old, third-rate flat,” Phoebe said. “You must visit.”

“Yes, I must.” Sibella straightened her dress. “I’m getting a lot of my news from the papers, these days. It isn’t right, Phoebe. It isn’t right at all.”

“Sorry?” Phoebe quirked an eyebrow. 

“It’s just that you’re supposed to be my best friend, darling, and best friends--they tell each other everything,” Sibella went on. “Like--for example--all these D’Ysquiths dying. You haven’t said a word about any of them.”

“Might I remind you that the D’Ysquiths cut me off their family tree?” Phoebe said, bemused. “Their lives and deaths are of little consequence to me.”

“But that whole succession business. With that family tree whittled down, how many--”

“Two,” Phoebe answered too quickly. “At least, I believe there are two still ahead of me in the line of succession.”

“Well!” Sibella exclaimed, her smile sparklingly white. “Look how things have changed for the two of us. Both on our way up. Imagine, in a year--you could be countess, and I...” 

Sibella surveyed the room with its pricey furniture and spotless surfaces. All of it hers; all of it unchanging. Phoebe could see the house in a year, in two years, in five: just as it was, give or take another sofa. Sibella had played the game well, and her prize was a lifetime of expensive monotony. 

“I hate this thing,” Sibella scowled, tugging at her necklace. “It’s always cold, no matter how long I wear it. Get the clasp for me, will you?”

“Of course.”

Phoebe repositioned herself at Sibella’s back, combing Sibella’s hair out of the way. Clouds of rose perfume drifted off Sibella’s skin--not as fresh as Monty’s flowers, but dizzyingly sweet. Phoebe ran her fingers along the string of pearls, pretending to search for the fastening that she’d spotted a minute before. 

“Was this a gift from Mr. Holland?” Phoebe asked.

Sibella shivered when Phoebe’s hand brushed her throat. “An engagement present. He gave me matching earrings after the wedding, and insisted I wear the set in Florence. It was like I was his mannequin.”

“Surely you didn’t have to wear them for long, considering the circumstances,” Phoebe said, slowly undoing the clasp. She lowered the necklace into Sibella’s lap, draping her arms over Sibella’s shoulders.

“You would think so!” Sibella huffed. “We spent the whole two weeks in museums and bistros. He read books well into the evening--I would often fall asleep before he was done. I’ve never seen a bed less used.”

On a normal day, Sibella would’ve shooed Phoebe off by now. It wasn’t proper, with Phoebe pressed up against her back; should a servant walk in, they’d have some difficulty playing the scene off as a friendly hug. But Sibella didn’t scoot away. She stayed still, barely breathing, like a hunter sitting by easily-spooked prey. 

Heart pounding, Phoebe touched her lips to the back of Sibella’s neck, murmuring, “Let’s not discuss your honeymoon, shall we?” 

Sibella laughed, and it wasn’t at Phoebe this time; Phoebe was in on the joke, beautifully included. Guiding Phoebe’s hands around her waist, Sibella tilted her head back and purred, “No, let’s not.” 

***********************************************************

Phoebe was asked to speak at her employer’s funeral. Still reeling from the wonderful, terrible news, she delivered a heartfelt dedication; the mourners clapped mechanically, their eyes bone-dry. One congratulated her on giving Adalbert such a good sendoff. 

“The current earl is still very much alive,” Phoebe gently corrected. “I’m, nevertheless, flattered that you think I did Lord Asquith justice.”

“Asquith?” the man repeated. “Wasn’t that the man what skated himself to death?”

“Asquith Junior, yes. This is the service for his father.”

The man’s wife took out a handkerchief, dabbing at her forehead. “Aren’t you about ready to go?” she asked. “I can’t roast in this dress much longer.”

“The nerve of these people!” the man said, fanning himself with a hand. “Dragging the whole town out in their Sunday best every other week.”

“Black wreaks havoc on my complexion,” his wife grumbled. “You’d think at least one of these D’Ysquiths would permit summer colors at their funeral.”

Before Phoebe could slink away from the duo, a paperboy burst through the doors, his hands ink-stained from clutching his goods. “D’Ysquith returns from the dead!” he hollered; guests swarmed him, cracking open their pocketbooks. “Lady Hyacinth to dock at noon!”

The entire room was abuzz with the joy of one fewer funeral to attend--except for a disgruntled Phoebe, the sole mourner who didn’t rush for a paper. Shoving through the crowd, she wracked her brain for where she had left that handsaw.

***********************************************************

New rumors popped up along the countryside, none of them very kind toward the D’Ysquith boy’s new mistress. Visiting every couple of days, staying well into the evening, wearing dresses that nearly left her ankles exposed: she was surely a bad seed. Phoebe could only imagine how much worse the mutterings would be should the townsfolk discover that the mistress had a mistress of her own.

While her days with Monty were, in reality, pure enough to please the late Reverend Ezekial, her evenings with Sibella was the real stuff of scandal. As much as Phoebe enjoyed watching Sibella attempt to keep quiet while spread out on Mr. Holland’s bed, the two preferred meeting at Phoebe’s home--there, they needn’t worry about any prying eyes. 

Sibella almost spent the night, once or twice. Dozing in Phoebe’s arms, half-undressed, she’d murmur how wretched it would be to go out in the cold. 

“Stay, then,” Phoebe suggested at the close of a particularly cozy night. “You can send word to Lionel in the morning.”

“And say what?” Sibella asked, resting her head against Phoebe’s shoulder. “That I prefer your bed to his?”

“Precisely. Shall I get you some stationary?”

Sibella’s laugh could melt the winter snow, Phoebe was sure. “He’ll be expecting me home soon,” she said. 

“Do you really think he would notice your absence?” Phoebe twirled one of Sibella’s curls around her finger. “It seems to me the man only has eyes for his work and his meals.”

It was too far, too close to a jab at Sibella herself. Sibella stiffened instantly; knocking Phoebe’s hand away from her hair, she threw back the covers, popping their little bubble with excessive force. 

“It’s awfully late,” Sibella said, turning her back to Phoebe. “Get me my dress, will you?”

Phoebe grudgingly slid out of bed, shivering on her way to gather Sibella’s dress off the floor. She lay it by her pillows, kneeling by Sibella’s side to retie the laces on her corset. 

“I didn’t mean--” Phoebe began, but Sibella held up a hand, her back rigid.

“I know what you meant,” she said quietly. “You’ve got it in your head that I’m playing wife for an empty suit, or a statue, or however you like to imagine Lionel. It’s all very funny to you, I know. But he isn’t a statue. He notices when things aren’t as they should be, and if he were to find out about...” She gestured to the two of them. “I have obligations to meet, Phoebe. And I meet them.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Phoebe promised, finishing the laces by tying her prettiest bow. “You’re an admirable wife; no one could ever think otherwise.”

Phoebe rubbed little circles into her back, planting a kiss to her shoulder. The attention eventually thawed Sibella’s defensiveness. “You’re staring at me,” she said, her voice relaxed again. “I can feel it.”

“I swear, you have some kind of sixth sense.”

“It’s not far-fetched to assume you’re staring at me. You always are.”

Sibella was both vain and right in thinking so. “Do you mind terribly?” Phoebe asked. Her hands were already toying with the freshly-tied bow on Sibella’s corset. Before Sibella could respond, the doorbell cut through the house’s stillness like a dozen jabbering reporters.

“Who could that be?” Sibella grabbed at her dress, fumbling with the snaps. On a normal day, it took her ten minutes to properly get into the thing. 

“I haven’t the foggiest--stay here. Be very still.” Thankfully, Phoebe had gotten dressed an hour earlier. Tugging at a crease, she hurried to the main hall, making sure the bedroom door shut safely behind her.

She had hardly opened the door a crack before Monty D’Ysquith came striding in. “Miss Navarro, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” he said, breathless and high-pitched. 

“It’s quite unexpected.”

He had a flower in his lapel: baby blue and just-bloomed. “I needed to see you as soon as possible,” he explained. “If I didn’t, I might--well, I might not--” Shakily dropping to one knee, Monty revealed a small box from his jacket pocket. He opened it with such force that the contents, a shining ring, fell to the floor; he scooped it up with clumsy hands. 

“Oh, Monty,” Phoebe breathed. A corner of her mind buzzed with bees and brothers, clouding her excitement.

“I cannot think of a kinder, purer soul to share my life with than you,” he said with moisture brightening his eyes. Phoebe prayed that Sibella stayed put. “The woman that saw me through my grief with the care of a perfect saint. If you would do me the honor, I’ve decided--against the family’s wishes, but they cut your mother off without a second thought, so that shows what they know--”

“Yes, we don’t have to go into that--”

“Will you marry me, Phoebe, darling?” He held up the ring, letting the stone catch the light. Up close, Phoebe could see that the modestly-sized stone was expertly cut to mimic flower petals. 

Sibella was still waiting in her bedroom. Sibella would always be waiting--behind closed doors, safely in the shadows. There was a woman who wouldn’t even spend the night with Phoebe. And here was a man who would defy his ancestors for her hand. 

“Of course,” she bubbled, pulling Monty to his feet. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.” 

She kissed him like a wife, and, ten minutes later, kissed Sibella like a lover. Few things short of murder had ever given her such a rush. 

***********************************************************

Powdering her nose in Highhurst’s luxurious washroom, Phoebe’s fingers quivered like mad. The get-together had gone decently well, so far: Monty was charming as ever, and Lord Adalbert’s wife was surprisingly pleasant (when away from her husband). Nevertheless, her mind never left the bottle of poison hidden at the bottom of her purse. Dinner would be served soon; if she could sneak a few drops into Adalbert’s food, she’d free the earldom from his mustachioed grip once and for all. 

As she rejoined the group in one of Highhurst’s endless hallways adorned with aging portraits, she walked into a nightmare: across the hall, she watched Lady Eugenia introduce Monty to a woman that looked like but couldn’t be Sibella. He kissed her hand, and she smiled her charming smile; if Lady Eugenia kept her mouth shut, the world Phoebe had built for herself might not collapse after all. 

Lord Adalbert had to go and clink that glass. Blustering his way through a toast as offensive as it was loud, he announced Monty’s engagement, eventually getting Phoebe’s name right. Phoebe didn’t dare look anywhere but at their hosts. 

“Dinner is served!”

She was almost out of the hall when Sibella caught her arm, pulling her back. Glancing at  the exiting guests, Phoebe said, “This is rather a coincidence, isn’t it, Mrs. Holland?”

“Oh, don’t you ‘Mrs. Holland’ me,” Sibella hissed. Phoebe had to think of Monty’s close proximity to keep from quailing under Sibella’s glare. “Just when were you planning to tell me this happy news?”

“You should expect an announcement by post in a few weeks,” Phoebe said as quietly as she could while retaining some anger of her own. “From my husband to yours.”

“An announcement!” Sibella’s voice was dangerously audible; Phoebe dragged her behind two suits of armor. “I will not be treated like a--”

“Friend?” Phoebe suggested. “That’s what we are, isn’t it, Sibella? Best friends? You’ve never so much as whispered anything indicating otherwise.”

“You and your words. I’ve made my feelings apparent, have I not? I don’t see how gabbing about it would make a difference.”

“I love you,” Phoebe said in something approaching a snarl. “I love you, I’ve always loved you, I’ve told you I love you from the moment I knew what love was. And you-- _laughed_ at me. Silly Phoebe and her strange ideas. Never once, not even when I had you against your own husband’s dresser--”

“Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake--”

“--did you acknowledge, out loud, what we are.”

Sibella’s lip trembled. “It can’t be done. Two women--you couldn’t have actually thought we could have made a life together.”

“Perhaps it’s a very good thing we’ve found ourselves suitable husbands, then,” Phoebe snapped. Her expensive heels clicking across the hall, she made her way to dinner, Sibella hurrying in her wake.

***********************************************************

Phoebe chalked up Lord Adalbert’s confusing demise to a cosmic dividend for her tireless hard work. She was soon Lady D’Ysquith-Navarro, countess of Highhurst, living in a castle with  the husband of her non-Sibella-related dreams. Monty planned an extravagant honeymoon; the dining room table was often covered from end to long end with maps. Though it never deterred his enthusiasm, Phoebe repeatedly stated that she’d be just as happy honeymooning around the corner.

It turned out she did. The days set aside for their getaway were spent in a courthouse, investigating whether or not Phoebe murdered Lord Adalbert. A good chunk of the witnesses believed that she did. Phoebe wondered where their sleuthing skills had been during the murders she actually had committed.

She awaited the court’s decision in a shoebox-sized jail cell, filling up notebook after notebook with her memoirs. Apart from the janitor, Phoebe did not have a single visitor for an interminable amount of time. After finishing the last page of her sordid story, she doodled Monty’s name in the margins.

The guard announcing her husband’s arrival made her jump a foot in surprise. Monty entered tentatively, sporting a small pink rose in his lapel. “How are you, my darling?” he asked, clasping her hands. 

“I’m happy, now that you’ve come to see me,” she gushed. Despite the guard’s presence, Monty pulled her into a close embrace, kissing her with the fervor pent up from their time apart. He broke it off too early for Phoebe’s taste, rubbing the palm of his hand against his eye. 

“Darling, I beg you not to worry about the outcome tomorrow,” she said, rambling about some unseen providence keeping them safe; she hoped something in the stream of comfort would wipe away the tortured look on his face. 

“Phoebe, there is one question that haunts me as much as tomorrow’s ruling,” Monty said, his voice wavering. “That woman--Mrs. Holland--that awful night at Highhurst, and then again, at the trial...the way she looked at you...and the way you looked at her...”

“What is it you’re asking?” Phoebe sounded too defensive. She had never spoken to Monty like an opponent before. His eyebrows raised.

“There’s no need to ask it,” he said softly. “You’ve just given me your answer.”

Phoebe memorized every little detail as he left: the color of his clothes, each curl in his hair, the breadth of his shoulders. If this was to be her last memory of Monty, she’d be damned if it didn’t remain as perfectly preserved as a photograph.

***********************************************************

She was blissfully asleep when the hoard of men burst into her cell. Still half in dreams, she heard the news as if underwater, the words garbled and strange. By some miracle, it was still true once she was fully awake: the court had deemed her innocent.

A throng of friendly faces greeted her outside of the jail, cheering her name. “Long live the countess!” a woman called--Miss Shingle?--but Phoebe was swept through the crowd too quickly, shaking hands and accepting compliments. The sea of people never ended, stretching on for hundreds of smiling strangers.

“Phoebe!”

Her heart leapt. There, amidst the well-wishers, stood a beaming Monty. Just as she took his arm, she heard: “Phoebe, darling!”

Sibella’s hands found her free arm; she kissed Phoebe’s cheek, laughing at Phoebe’s astonishment. She and Monty were both talking, explaining, and Phoebe couldn’t listen, couldn’t focus on anything past both of them here and happy.

As the trio strolled in freedom, Phoebe began picturing how easy it would be for Mr. Lionel Holland to find himself in a motorcar accident--then Sibella would need a place to live, and Highhurst was not lacking in spare rooms. As a reporter shouted for her picture, Phoebe put the plan aside for now. She’d revisit it, though. This was far from the end. 

 


End file.
